The Blaring Silence of a Whisper in the Dark
by potterpunkchick
Summary: Harley is just a normal, very bored, teenage girl- until she finds out she's a witch, goes to school, gets kidnapped by ninja turtles jk but...
1. The Letters

The sun, as always, was blaring over Schowgid Roll. There were two types of blaring, the good kind and the bad. The good kind was related to music, the blaring of a stereo annoying ones mother. The bad kind was of the sun, blaring through closed curtains putting odd shaped turquoise dots upon ones eyes.

So, Harley Pristals room there were two forms of blaring although the bad seed to out-blare the good. And even more blaring, of the bad sort was to come. The voice of her mother blaring up the stairs telling her to takeout the trash then to stop and retrieve the mail.

She did n want to. She would rather stay sprawled out on her bed eyeballing the ceiling. If she stared long enough, miniature seals would appear and she could have a happy conversation with the only intelligent life she had seen in sixty-two days. Although Lord knows she hadn't seen any before then either.

It was not that she was lazy, or that she made habit of not doing her chores. It was that summer had had come sixty-two days ago and that this routine was getting old. It was the sixty-second day she had been interrupted, in this same manner, from not doing 'nothing' and making friends with the ceiling. It had been sixty-two days since she had seen her best friend and done anything that could be defined as fun. And this was the sixty-second day in a row that she had been blared at to do the same chore at exactly two o' seven pm.

In Lamens' terms she was bored and had no motivation to even move.

Reluctantly she slid off her bed and into her brown Enties shoes. She pushed herself up and somehow convinced herself to drag her lifeless feet to the top of the staircase. If it sounds painful it is only because it was; there would be know retreating back to her bedroom after this walk, she would be forced to spend the rest of the afternoon with her mother. At the moment she would rather walk down the aisle and marry Michael Jackson than to make that walk.

The staircase consisted of thirteen stairs and divided two rooms, there was tile right below it and carpet of the same color as the stairs on either side. To one side was the sitting, dining, and 'discussion' area. (A multifunctional front room that her mother used for her 'We have to talk' talks) to the other side was the music nook, with her mothers' piano, guitar, violin, trumpet, harp and any other imaginable instrument positioned randomly about it. The staircase had two huge Beachwood banisters to each side of it, but she dare not push her luck enough to slide down them.

Instead, she walked down calmly, heading straight for the door, grabbed her mother keys from the welded metal rack and stepped into the God-awful Virginia heat. Living out in the middle of nowhere, it was surprising that the mail was even delivered here. It was nice to have a forest merely a pools length from her backyard, but enduring her closet neighbor being a mile and half away and a ninety minute bus ride to school (or anywhere for that matter) did not make the 'simple country life' worth it.

Harley rolled the garbage bin to the street and skipped over to the mailbox. She put down the red flag and retrieved the envelopes. I was always the same, cards for every occasion given to her mother, bills and junk. She flipped through it anyway, later being grateful she did, being that she found something rather interesting.

Weird, as in out of the ordinary 'occurrences' that people don't soon forget about

Seem to happen around Harley. Around and not to her because these 'occurrences' were usually her fault. Certain objects were not supposed to fly, you r eyes were not supposed to change colors, and your feet should remain on the ground at all times, not float in midair.

She couldn't stop them, much less explain them, nor could her mother. Dyane simply insisted upon moving every time and 'incident' occurred. She also made sure that Harley had no contact with her former friends.

But that was not the reason to blame for her boredom. She had all but forgotten her friends from New York; it had been a year to the date since they last moved. Sure, the students at Dean hadn't exactly embraced her and they gave a hell of a welcome wagon, but there was one, and that was al she needed.

Lee Charlotte was the only one at Dean who hadn't been part of 'The Spray Painting of Harley's Hair' as an initiation. It was blue that entire week, she would have kept it that way had she been allowed. The 'trick' did not sadden nor depress Harley, she had always been quite the prankster and this only made her more optimistic ( if it could be called that) about the sick institution. Harley hated and it could only get more interesting there on out.

And it did get more interesting. Her first minor offense was switching the jocks' (half the school's population) uniforms with the cheerleaders' skirts – and spankies, couldn't forget those. Lee had heard of her plans (he still wouldn't tell her how) and met he outside to escort the uniforms to be burned. Good Times.

He was currently and a reformatory summer camp for boys. Harley had gotten the feeling that his mother did not like her, seeing as she had done all she could to keep the friends apart. She couldn't be blamed, after all, the cherry bombs in the school toilets (which got them both suspended) were her fault.

She did miss him, his absence was the reason concerning her boredom. Ere go, it was very… surprising, because he hated writing, when she discover ed a letter from him. Obviously having a dastardly time, he was begging for help – she'd read it later.

In the mean time, there was another envelope at her fingertips. It was brown with a parchment like feel. There were, what seemed to be claw marks on it, but that was nonsense; owls didn't deliver mail after all. The really insane part was the way it was addressed. _'Harley Jaynne Pristal, up the stairs, the last door on the left.'_ Those were exactly right, the 'directions' to her room. In the top writ had corner were these lines of writing:

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

She walked back up to the house wondering if pigs could really contract warts.

A/N: Ther u have it, chapter 1, um...I take critscm well, so don't be afraid to correct me...please review!!! Steff


	2. Chapter 2

Hey Guys, so sorry for the lack of updating, broke my leg(tore the cartlidge in my knee actually) in a skiing accident, so I haven't written too much or even thought of a title for this installment. I promise that the no other chapter(except the continuation of this one) will be so short, nor will they be as long as chapter 1. Sorry about the double posting, I see what I can do about that. Any way here you go...Enjoy... Steff

Harry Potter was not a normal boy, no matter how much he wished to be. How many sixteen year olds wielded a wand as skillfully as Harry? And what number of young-already- been- through- puberty men had defeated the Dark Lord numerous times with nothing to show for it but their lives? None of that mattered now; none of that had ever mattered.

What mattered now was that he was stuck in a house (locked in his room actually) with three idiotic gits; two whales and an ice pick. None of whom cared enough to know who he was, nobody seemed to cared enough.

His friends hadn't even written to him. The statement itself was a lie. They had written, but sparsely. Only the occasional ' we feel so sorry for Harry' letter and birthday cards of course had arrived. He didn't read most of them; he didn't even open them (what was the point?) They were all stashed in the rickety floorboard near his bed. It was starting to get rather full, that space with his school books and what not, maybe Dudley would eat the letters.

He wasn't looking forward to school either. There was loads of upcoming homework and Malfoy's criticism- he could defend himself, but the events of last year it seemed hadn't haunted him enough.

Last year he was 'hormone boy' always feeling sorry for himself. Not this time, maybe not. He knew that he'd be labeled as depressed worn out hero who had seen too much death' but he didn't care. At least, he tried not to care. Again none of that matter now, not even Sirius mattered now.

He had to live, and he had to live today, unfortunately. This had to be his life, such a lame statement, but true. He had to focus and today's focus was getting out of this house.

Magnolia Crescent had only become more inviting since he was cornered by dementors last summer (really!) He desperately wanted out, but the Dursley's had forbidden him from going anywhere near the front and back doors. 'Harry made too much trouble and confronted Dudley with too many tempting situations that would force him to make regrettable choices' had been Aunt Petunia's explanation for keeping him locked up. Harry only liked to pretend that he was the one with the gang of arrogant twits who beat up small children for their rice cakes.

But his Aunt and Uncle had never said anything about going near the windows. He only had to wait until that emaciated cow and her ginormous husband and son were asleep which he could tell by their snores.

Vernon had felt safe about not having to check on Harry every hour by adding a lock (which locked from the outside, no doubt) to his nephew's door. But Harry was more conniving than his uncle thought. Finally at a quarter to one am ha was able to hear the astounding snorts of his 'guardians.' He lifted the sheets to reveal a fully dressed Harry, shoes and all.


End file.
